


gloria ferri

by MaidenMotherCrone



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Modern Royalty, Mutant Politics, Politics, Psychological Trauma, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24111220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenMotherCrone/pseuds/MaidenMotherCrone
Summary: In which Tony Stark is the 18-year-old King of America, Steve Rogers is Captain America, and the Avengers still somehow come about.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	gloria ferri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which tony stark ascends.

It is raining when the news comes.

The servants spy the car—black and unmarked—racing up the water-slicked road, the heavy iron gates peeling open with little fanfare. The driver steps out, pulling out a long black umbrella, opening it over him. He is a blot of black on the avenue, people dashing around him. The man lingers only briefly and then approaches the royal mansion that stretches across the block, occupying a small country on Fifth Avenue.

He thinks he is unseen, but the walls of Stark Mansion have always had eyes.

It is January 13th. The war has been over for not quite two weeks. There is a man in black and an unmarked car.

The eyes know what this means.

Virginia—' _I’ll call you Pepper’_ —Potts moves first. She jumps up from the windowsill, turning on her Louboutin heels and stalks down the plush red carpet, leaving footprints in her wake that slowly fill in, any trace of her disappearing within the blink of an eyelash. She smooths down her pencil skirt and feels impossibly young, but not as young as the young man that she practically runs for.

Pressing frantically at the old brass buttons, she can hear the lift moving slowly, creaking with the kind of patience that Pepper herself does not have. When it finally arrives, she slides into the elevator, putting a hand up to stop the young maid that intends to step into the servants’ elevator with her. With little fanfare, Pepper puts in the code for the garage.

There’s a long ding that sounds like the chorus of _Back to Black_ by AC/DC. That’s new, and in any other circumstance, Pepper would smile and roll her eyes. She can’t bring herself to do such a thing, because the elevator is slow and, the black car is outside on Fifth Avenue and, she has to tell her boss—her friend—that…

The elevator dings again and the doors slide open to reveal frosted glass walls, and she can just make out the shape of one of the car’s hoods, popped open and exposing the inner-bits of chrome and metal. Pepper slams the door open and skids over a slick of oil on the concrete ground.

“Tony!” Pepper calls, sliding into the workshop, nearly crashing into the glass wall. She gapes, looking around, and then stops when she sees long denim-clad jeans sticking out from the underside of a 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster ** _._ **

“Just one sec, Pep. I’m just...about…”

“This cannot wait,” Pepper says. She pauses. “Your _Majesty_.”

There is the sound of a wrench dropping to the floor. Pepper can’t hear anything except for her own heart creeping up to her throat. Then, Tony slides from underneath the car, sitting up on the creeper, his soft face slick with black oil and grease stains in his hair. He looks like he has not slept in three days, and this is not unusual, Pepper knows that, but she wishes she could’ve told him these words when he was well-rested.

“What?” Tony whispers.

“The King is Dead,” Pepper says, drawing herself up. “Long live the King.”

She ends the age-old adage with a curtsey.

Tony flinches, shaking his head. DUM-E rolls to his side, bumping against Tony’s outstretched hand. This seems to shock Tony into some kind of reaction besides shock.

“My father is dead?” Tony asks softly, like he didn’t know it was coming.

As if he hadn’t known that one day, his father would drink himself to death.

“Yes,” Pepper says. “Your father is dead. You are the King. Long may you reign.”

* * *

Tony Stark has known he was to be king since he was 7 years old. He remembers the day that he realized better than most. He was at Stark Mansion—as he had been since before he could even remember—and Jarvis had put him in front of two charts. One had been a listing of all 49 presidents, and the second had been a family tree with the words _‘THE ROYAL HOUSE OF STARK’_ spun at the top in gold. Tony had understood the first, but the second.

The second had taken him a moment.

He had traced his finger along shining branches and fading names, stopping over his mother’s name ‘Maria Carbonell Stark’, and then his father’s ‘Howard Stark’ with a crown over that fresher ink. Tony had torn his gaze away and looked up at Jarvis, brow furrowed.

“Is Dad the king?” Tony asked because he knew that in the United States of America, there was a President and a King, two sides of the same coin. That was how Jarvis described it whenever they went over the government.

Tony had always found civics exceptionally boring and had read the Constitution only twice before he had decided that he never wanted to see it again. He had made note of the role of King and the role of President, but it had seemed too convoluted for him to care. Instead, he had gone to what made sense and built his first circuit board. He had wanted to show Dad, but Dad was always so busy.

Jarvis had been proud enough for him, anyway.

“Yes, young sir,” Jarvis said, forever patient and always kind. He watched for Tony’s conclusion.

“Does that mean... _I’ll_ be King, one day?” Tony asked. Jarvis’ lips began to curl into a smile and Tony panicked, cheeks flushed red with excitement. “But, I don’t want to be King!”

Jarvis’ smile fell away. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I don’t want to be King!”

“What do you want to be, then?” Jarvis asked.

“I want to be an _inventor_ ,” Tony said with conviction because conviction and brass were all he knew. “You said I could be one. That I was good.”

“You are, young sir. But—” Jarvis promised and then he stopped, eyeing the expression on Tony’s face, dejection and irritation. Jarvis sighed. “Perhaps, you could be both.”

Tony beamed a gap-toothed smile in triumph.

That was the day Tony Stark had known he would be king. He did not learn what it meant.

Tony Stark is an MIT graduate. He can make sparks sing, and command iron to melt. He can build glory out of nothingness and is trying to create artificial life out of the ether. He is brash and arrogant too, and some might think that’s because of his royal blood, but anyone that knew him would say it was because he was a genius and he knew it. But, so did they.

His brilliance is not an exaggeration and it is not something to be trifled with. His mind is his greatest weapon, and he knows he has had little room to use it in the realm of politics. But, he never quite minded because he knew the quantum realm and could spit chemistry formulas in his sleep. After all, Tony Stark knows a lot of things.

But, he does not know if he can be the King that his father never was.

* * *

“At 11:34 AM, this morning, the King passed in his sleep from what is assumed to be…” and hear the messenger hesitates with distaste. It is a distinctly prudish attitude for something so American. “...alcohol poisoning. Of course, this is not to be widely known.”

Obadiah Stane very carefully schools his expression into something that is akin to sadness. He nods at the messenger.

“And?” he asks.

“You are the first to know,” the messenger confirms. “The Chief Justice and Archbishop have been placed in the Blue Room.”

Obadiah allows himself a single snide smile and nods, leaning forward to slide the fifty dollar note into the messenger’s hand. The man slides the green bill into the inner fold of his coat and nods. He leaves without solemnity as if his sovereign hadn’t just died in the most pitiful way. Of course, everyone that _knew_ the man had expected Howard Stark to go out in such a way. The general public had hoped for a bombing or an assassination, perhaps.

 _Let it be known_ , Obadiah thinks, _that Howard Stark—the drunken bastard—will go down in history as the War King. And not a good one, at that._

Obadiah clears his throat and straightens the lapels of his suit. He is to be in charge of the new King’s household. It is his right. He had managed both Maria and Howard’s households well until Howard had fallen into his own idiotic drunken stupor. Now, Tony would learn to trust him with that as well. Perhaps, even to be his own private secretary, an honor that Obadiah had never quite achieved with Howard, who preferred to look over _all_ of his own correspondence.

Obadiah moves with a haste that he does not usually possess. He is all-powerful movement and molasses smooth strides. But, he is practically running towards Tony’s quarters. He slams his fist on the doors, harder than necessary. The intricately carved walnut doors part. Obadiah’s lips curls.

Edwin Jarvis is a peculiarly tall, rail-like man with a British accent and an _irritating_ air to him that Obadiah has never been able to stand.

“Move out of the way, Jarvis. I need to speak with Tony,” Obadiah commands.

“Very good, sir,” Jarvis says. He does not move.

Obadiah’s jaw tightens. “Jarvis, _move_.”

“I cannot, sir. His Majesty has commanded that no one is allowed entrance without his express permission.”

“You can’t think he meant _me_ ,” Obadiah snarls.

Jarvis hums, his pale eyes sharpening just so. “Perhaps,” is all he says.

And then, there is the sound of rising voices and the clicking of heels. Virginia Potts, statuesque and gorgeous, appears behind Jarvis, a genial smile pasted on her professional face. She nods at Jarvis and Jarvis steps to the side. Obadiah watches as a man draped in pontifical vestments steps around the pair, nodding briefly over his shoulder and a thrum of rage crashing through the center of him. The bishop is followed by a more familiar face.

“Chief Justice Kagan,” Obadiah murmurs.

The Chief Justice Elena Kagan lifts her wizened face, nodding once. She is terribly hard-faced for a woman in her mid-80s. The pair disappear and then Jarvis and Virginia Potts both step aside, revealing the man of the hour.

The _boy_ of the hour.

Obadiah’s lips curl over his teeth. This beautiful boy is _King_ of the United States of America. All five feet and seven inches of him. He looks like he doesn’t even need to shave and he’s suddenly one of the most powerful people in the world, by his luck of the draw.

It’s so absurd that Obadiah might laugh from hilarity.

It’s so absurd that Obadiah wants to strangle him until his lips turn blue.

“Obadiah,” Tony says, looking up at him with a tilt of his head. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—this is not unusual, but it must change, of course—and he looks freshly washed, though he missed a grease spot by his temple.

He is in _sweatpants_. This _boy_ has been given the permission of both government and church to rule. While he was wearing fucking _sweatpants._

“You saw the Presiding Bishop and the Chief Justice alone? In sweatpants?” Obadiah asks through gritted teeth.

Tony looks up at him from beneath dark, long eyelashes, his generous mouth twisted into something that Obadiah does not recognize. He had not realized how lovely Tony had really become. Tony’s lips pull back over his teeth and he gives a sarcastic smile.

“I intend to see all my ministers alone.”

Obadiah cannot help the vitriol he spits: “This is not a game!”

Tony doesn’t flinch. He knows it isn’t. No matter how much he wants to pretend it is.

“I know,” he says.

Obadiah grinds his teeth together. “And what have you styled yourself? Your father made the mistake of going by _Howard._ A common name. You must go with something more traditional,” Obadiah says in that voice that he uses when trying to placate. Tony has heard Obadiah use this tone with his father and it _grates_ , because before this moment, Obadiah had always been on his side. “But, not British. We can’t invoke _that_. Perhaps Jonathan or Benjamin. _Alexander_ , after the great conqueror—”

“My name is Anthony Edward Stark. I will die as King Anthony Edward Stark,” Tony says coolly because he would rather die than let them rip his name from him, the name his father had said he didn’t deserve.

Obadiah grinds his teeth again, and Tony smirks at the thought of Obadiah grinding those pearly whites into powder. He turns on his heels and he can feel the air shift behind him, like Obadiah reaches out to grab him, and then remembers himself.

The minute Tony turns the corner, he feels his chest nearly concave on itself. He grabs at the wall for support and takes a deep breath. He tries to take another, but they all seem trapped in his throat. He feels large, cool, familiar hands on his jaw, cupping his face.

“Sir, you are okay. You will be fine. You must _breathe,_ sir. You can do it.” Jarvis’ voice has pulled him out of many petulant moods and sleepless nights. But, it has never yanked him from the descent into panic. It does now, and Tony jerks, breathing deeply, because Jarvis says he can.

Tony blinks, feeling slightly light-headed. Jarvis stands before him with Pepper hovering over his shoulder, worry tightening her lips into a thin line. Tony looks at Jarvis, waiting for that irritation to surface, as it had so quickly shifted in Obadiah’s mask.

Jarvis looks at him the same and Tony can’t help his overwhelming relief.

“I’m the—” Tony says, but he stops.

Jarvis nods. “You are.”

“Sir—” Pepper starts.

Tony snorts. “Come on, Pep. It’s still me.”

Pepper’s mask cracks and warmth returns to the corner of her eyes. Sometimes, Tony forgets that she’s not much older than him, only 25, and feels like a kid just as much.

“Okay, _Tony_ ,” Pepper drawls, “there are some people downstairs waiting for you.”

Tony stops because—Maria.

“Oh. Mom,” he mutters under his breath, because he isn’t quite sure what he feels about that. He pulls away from Jarvis and ignores Obadiah’s irritation. He chalks it up to the fact that his fucking father is _dead_.

The King is dead.

Tony walks towards the stairs and slowly begins his descent, his makeshift entourage moving behind him, a few steps behind because that is _proper_ now, even though Tony has never cared much for what is and isn’t proper. He wants to reach back for Pepper, to pull her to his side, but he doesn’t because this—this one thing, he’ll get right.

As he turns the corner, he sees the entirety of the Stark Mansion staff standing at the bottom of the steps—all 35 of them, and Maria Carbonell Stark, the Queen Mother, now. Maria looks up at her son, her chin lifted, her dark eyes sparking with something that Tony can’t quite recognize. She shifts imperceptibly, and he isn’t sure if she’s nodding or not. But, he can practically hear her words.

_Mio dolce figlio, mio piccolo principe._

“The King is dead!” Obadiah announces. “Presenting, His Royal Majesty, King Anthony the First of House Stark. Long live the King!”

And the entirety of the staff thunders back. “Long live the King!”

They bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The venture into a new fandom is always an interesting one. I've never written for the MCU but this idea has been in my head for AGES. Since I first watched Victoria, to be honest. So, here's my Victoria inspired fic.
> 
> It will be updated VERY sparingly. So. But, I just needed to put it out into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: To be clear, the format, as in the ages, being markers of time passing is inspired by "our golden age" by augustbird, but when I decided I wanted to also write a royalty AU, I didn't read the fic. Because I didn't read the fic, I haven't linked this story directly to it. But, I just wanted to be as transparent as possible about that.
> 
> LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580042/chapters/3355589


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